


run, baby, run

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Showers, Unknowingly Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-29 17:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Claire invites Brad to come running with her in Central Park one weekend. Except Brad is more of a dog park, farmer's market, stop and smell the flowers kinda guy. Their morning run kicks off a chain of events that changes their relationship.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 17
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you just want innocent dating fluff, chapter 1 is all you need! if you want a little making out/some ~feelings, chapter 2 is for you! if things seem to be going well and you're feelin' smutty, chapter 3 will be for you! so, this will get progressively more explicit as we go along. this is half-written. will probs post chapter 2 this week and chapter 3 this weekend. 
> 
> let me know what you think! honor the rpf fight club rules.

The offer she makes to him is off-handed and born of his stomping around the kitchen clutching his dramatically extended stomach and complaining that working in the test kitchen has been a fucking disaster on his girlish figure.

The words fly out of her mouth between nervous giggles before she can hold them back (or make a remark about how much she does enjoy his current figure). “Brad, come running with me tomorrow. That’ll get you your girlish figure back in no time.”

He had wrinkled his nose, looking skeptical, and hunched himself over her station next to her. “I don’t know, Claire. I’m not really much of a runner.”

The size of him—all muscles and flexing tendons—was indication of that. She curls her hands around her rolling pin to stop herself from putting her hand on his forearm. “It’ll be fun,” she needles, the whine she knows he can’t resist entering her voice. “Plus I hate running alone in Central Park.”

That—the potential threat to Claire’s safety—makes the smile slide off his face and he considers her seriously, nodding. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’m there. Just text me with the time and place.”

He bops his hand down on the countertop like an exclamation point to their conversation—like they make plans to hang out on the weekend all the time—and leaves her behind with a too-fast beating heart and the prospect of Brad seeing her in her running clothes tomorrow, of Brad seeing her flushed and splotchy and out of breath. 

She beats the pie dough on her station a little harder than normal and tries to not think about the mess she’s just gotten herself into.

____________________

Working out with Brad, she finds, is a lot like _working_ with Brad. He’s a riot of energy, bouncing around on the trail and weaving in and out of the other runners, waving and nodding to everyone. It takes more than one patient reminder to him that most people run for some alone time and they don’t want to stop and have a conversation about the brewery on their t-shirt.

“When running,” she reminds him pointedly as he jogs back over to her after speaking with one of the hot vendors in the park about the mystery hot sauce he saw labeled on the man’s cart, “it helps to actually, you know, _run.”_

“I told you, Claire! I’m not much of a runner! I’m more of a lift heavy shit kinda guy. See?” The stack of bricks across the path that a local construction crew is using to replace the park perimeter wall provides the perfect weight demonstration and Claire giggles a little as he lifts a handful of them up in the air.

Her eyes flick to his biceps flexing with minimal effort, to the tendons in his wrist and forearms rippling beneath his skin, to broad expanse of his chest, to the visual of his large hands wrapping almost completely around the brick with room to spare. 

She licks her lips, swallows hard, searches for the right words to break through the heat settling low in her stomach. Her attraction to him, her (god, she hates that she sounds like a schoolgirl with a crush) _feelings_ for him, aren’t new. It’s pretty hard to work side-by-side with Brad Leone and not fall a little bit in love with him.

The problem is that she fell a lot in love with him. 

Her eyes spot the pine cones on the ground and she grins, amused by her own joke, and picks them up, mimicking his weight-lifting actions. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” she teases. “Gotta get those reps in or whatever.”

Brad laughs the full bellied laugh that she hears so rarely these days, loud and booming and the kind that forces him to bend over and clutch at his stomach. It sends her into a fit of matching giggles and for a moment, they are a pair of absolute children, delighted in the simple pleasure of making each other laugh.

And then Brad’s attention-challenged mind wanders further down the path and the laughter turns to pure, abounding excitement, bricks and pine cones already forgotten. 

“Oh my god, Claire, look! A _dog_ park! Oh, we gotta stop! Look at the big boy in the corner. C’mon!”

He’s loping off, long legs taking her further than she can keep up with, before she tells him they haven’t even _started_ their workout yet. She had a plan for them post-warm up that involved interval sprints and walking to get him accustomed to longer bouts of jogging, maybe a little meditation and breathing exercises if they had time.

But the flare of irritation Claire feels at her morning run being disrupted dissipates when she sees him on his knees in the park, rubbing his big hands all over the Great Dane’s fur and slobbering just as much as the dog. Brad in shorts and a sleeveless shirt, all sweaty, wearing a backwards baseball cap, and rolling around in the grass with one of the cutest dogs she’s ever seen is enough to make her a little weak in the knees. He’s like every jock fantasy she’s ever had come to life.

She reaches a hand out to pat the dog’s head, scratches her nails through the soft fur, and gets on the dog’s level, fully aware of Brad’s attention on her. 

“Hey—“ She checks the dog’s tag and sees his name is Thor. “Hey, Thor. It’s been great hanging with you, but I have to take Brad away now.” Both Thor and Brad whimper a little and she rolls her eyes, pats Thor on the head, before standing and turning her attention to her own overgrown man-dog. “Brad, c’mon, you were the one who wanted to run in the first place. Now let’s run.”

The challenge in her voice draws a raised eyebrow from him and he grins. “Okay, Saffitz. You wanna run? Let’s run.” 

He points to the clearing a few hundred feet ahead. “See those trees? Last one there has to scrub the kitchen drains next time Gaby makes us clean.”

“What! Brad—“

“Ready?”

“Brad, sprinting really isn’t—“

“Go!”

“Hey!”

But there’s no holding him back. His laughter is carrying on the wind, infectious and high-pitched. He yips and hollers the entire sprint, teasing her by yelling over his shoulder, “Keep up, Claire!”

She grits her teeth and doubles her speed, pumps her legs and arms and does her best to overtake him. She _hates_ cleaning the drains. But it’s no use. Between the head start he had on her and the sheer size of him, it’s a lost cause.

The only victory she has is that for as hard as they both ran, Claire’s breathing is fairly even and controlled while Brad looks like another ten feet would have resulted in him keeling over.

It doesn’t mean he’s so winded that he can’t gloat. “Hoo boy! I kicked your butt, Claire. Not even close.” 

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not fair! Your legs are longer than mine!” 

Being a good loser is definitively _not_ one of her strong suits.

He grins at her affectionately, takes a lingering look over her legs. “Yeah, you do have little legs.”

She’s grateful she’s wearing leggings so he can’t see the blush on her cheeks and neck has spread over her thighs, too. While they both take sips of water from the bottles tied at their hips, Claire nudges his shoulder with hers and looks up at him with the wide-eyed, innocent expression that she knows will make him drop everything andmanufacture her a mold from scratch or a Twizzler extruder.

“You’re not _really_ going to make me clean the drains, right, Brad?”

He lets out a bark of laughter and splashes her with a capful of water. “You bet you ass, Half-Sour.”

She only pouts until Brad’s hat gets taken by the wind twenty minutes into their jog and he has to chase it across the park’s open fields, apologizing profusely to the pigeons and squirrels whose Saturday morning he’s disturbing. 

The universe, she thinks, has a way of keeping everything in balance. It sounds like something Brad would say, so she tells him when he returns, affixing his hat more firmly to his head.

He beams at her words of wisdom, kicks the toe of her running shoes with his. “Now you’re gettin’ it, Claire. Just gotta let the universe talk and all you gotta do is sit back and listen.”

“I’m glad you think that,” she says, eyes lighting up at something over his shoulder. He turns as she points to the crowd of tents and the bustle of people. “Because I think the universe is telling us to go check out the farmer’s market this morning.”

____________________

It’s not that she actually wants to stop running. Claire _likes_ running. She likes the repetitive, sure motions it requires; the way she can turn her brain off and let her body carry her across the park for miles and miles. It keeps her sane and her mind clear. At first, it had been about the fact that she thought she _couldn’t_ do it—couldn’t run a mile, couldn’t run five, couldn’t run a marathon. It had been about proving herself wrong. She’s a competitor, even with herself. But the shift to something she needed, like meditation, had surprised her. 

But she can see that Brad’s not really into it the way she is and that’s okay. It’s a reminder that there’s a good chance the only reason he’s here with her this morning is because she said she didn’t want to run alone. 

The farmer’s market is a good way to stop the run, but not their morning together.

They walk side-by-side down the winding maze of vendors and stalls. She’s stopped in this market before, but she’s never been here with _Brad. _Shopping with Brad, she’s realizing, is a lot like working out with Brad. Claire admires the way he befriends almost every vendor while she quietly hangs back and chit chats with her favorite cheesemaker and baker. 

Maybe this was Brad’s way of relaxing and turning his brain off, just talking and getting to know the people in the massive city they called home. Her introspection was interrupted by Brad turning to her, eyes wide and mouth full of _something._

“Claire! _Claire._ Try this. Right now.”

“What is it—_mmph.”_

Brad’s fingers slipped beneath her chin to hold her steady as he slid the spoon into her mouth. She couldn’t help it, she groaned around the plastic spoon, her top lip grazing Brad’s finger as he pulled back, nodding smugly.

“_Right?_ Oh god, it’s _so _good. We need to get Gaby down here and order, like, a thousand.”

She licked at her lips, thinking about the blend of soft, creamy goat cheese, the runny egg yolk lending creaminess, the hot, fatty bacon, the bright zest of lemon juice and zest to finish, the flaky pastry encasing everything and the sprinkling of crackling pepper and salt to finish. 

Her eyes opened—she didn’t even remember closing them, _that’s_ how good it was. “Brad,” she said with a grin. “I don’t think we need a thousand galettes in the kitchen.”

“I think we do,” he countered, half-joking. At her raised eyebrow, he relented and turned back to the young woman selling the pastries. “Okay, scratch the order for a thousand, but we’ll definitely take, like four more.”

“Four!”

“Claire, isn’t the point of running that we get to eat a bunch of carbs afterwards?”

Claire watched as he took the parchment paper packages of the incredible pastry and bit back that they hadn’t _actually_ done much running that morning.

They continued their walk among the market. The cool morning had given way to the early morning sun and both of them were growing sticky and sweaty between their run—limited though it was—and the sun. 

Their hands brush a few times as they walk along the stalls and they get a kick out of stopping and smelling the honey beeswax candles (of which Claire picks up a handful). 

“I have something you may not know,” she announces to Brad, slipping her candles in the reusable bags she’d packed in her fanny pack. The flutter in her stomach she gets at the sight of her things along side his (pastries and candles and fresh spices that he’d picked up), she tells herself, is absolutely silly. They shop together at Whole Foods all the time when the kitchen needs a between-order supply run. It’s just the weekend morning spent together that’s getting to her.

The final stall is a mustachioed man touting tinctures and home remedies. Claire watches with a rueful grin as Brad gushes about his favorite concoctions, praises the benefits of echinacea syrup and turmeric. She marvels at the easy way he converses and shares his energy and passions with the people around him. Brad takes the man’s business card, shakes his hand, and doesn’t think twice before reaching for the bag on Claire’s shoulder, taking it from her easily and slipping the information into the bag and swinging it up onto his own shoulder.

It’s something she’s seen couples do in this market a dozen times and it makes her heart beat faster and she can feel her mouth parting in surprise. He looks back at her with a tilt of his head and a grin. “You comin’? I think we oughta head back home. These pastries ain’t gonna eat themselves. And I’m hungry again.”

Neither one of them question the way they both head for the same home: her apartment. 

___________________

“Oh my god, Brad, _no,_” she giggles, fishing her keys out of her fanny pack and pushing open the front door of her apartment building. “_Born to Run_ is _not_ Springsteen’s best album.”  
  
“Oh, you’re probably a _Born in the USA_ girl, aren’t you? Oh! I knew it! Typical!”

Her laughs of disbelief at his good-natured ribbing fade, though, when she turns to see him hovering uncertainly at the threshold. She turns her keys over in her hands nervously, wondering if she misread the situation. 

She had thought he had wanted to continue their morning together as badly as she did. But maybe he needed to go….

“Brad?”

“Well, see, the thing is Claire—“ He took a deep breath, blushing a little. “I didn’t think you’d _actually_ make me run and between that and the dog park and the market, I, uh, kinda stink. And I’m sweaty. Like, a gross level of sweating.”

She rolls her eyes at him, opens the door wider. “Brad, it’s fine. You can use my shower. I’ve got some spare sweats you can borrow.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, questions bubbling at the back of his throat. She blushes this time, ducks her head and gestures him in. She’s not sure she’s ready to tell him they’re from a weekend fling she picked up at a bar because he had looked like a certain 6’4” New Jersey chef she had been processing some newly developed feelings for. 

“C’mon,” she reiterated, pointing to the bag of pastries and goods on his shoulder. “You’re not leaving me with _four_ of those things. Unless—“ she said, suddenly looking unsure. “Unless you need to get home?”

Brad shakes his head quickly, stepping over the threshold and towards her. “Nope,” he says cheerfully. “No where else I’d rather be.”

She grinned up at him and picked up their conversation about Bruce Springsteen’s albums as they headed for her apartment and the rest of their Saturday morning. 


	2. Chapter 2

One of the first things he notices about Claire’s apartment is that the only two areas of her apartment that are immaculately organized are the kitchen and the shelves of books that also hold her liquor bar. Everything else in her place is delightfully, endearingly haphazard: pillows and blankets askew on the couch, piles of laundry spilling out of the utility room and into the hallway (where he can see where Claire has kicked a path for herself through the clothes).

He grins, leans against the kitchen bar, and watches as she shoots him a furtive, panicked look before quickly kicking the laundry out of the hallway, half-heartedly picking up the books and papers scattered on the coffee table in the living room.

“Don’t worry, Claire,” he teases, resting his cheek on his closed fist. “Your secret is safe with me.” 

“And what secret is that?” 

She says it like she’s daring him to comment out loud on the state of her apartment. He’s never been one to shy away from a dare, but her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment and he figures he can let this one go this time. But he tucks it away alongside all of the other little tidbits of information he’s learned about he over the years, the things that make her Claire. 

Claire reaches for the bag on his shoulder and studiously does not meet his eyes. She begins unloading their goods on the kitchen counter, tucking the few stray strands of hair that have escaped her messy bun behind her ear.

“Um, shower’s down the hall and to the left. Everything you need should be in there, towels and soap and stuff.” He thinks she looks a little flustered and it’s somehow even more endearing than the hasty clean-up job she tried. He likes that he makes her nervous, likes what that may mean about them and the way she may feel about him. 

She tucks two of their pastries into the fridge and slides the others onto a parchment-lined baking sheet, turning away from him to fiddle with the oven. “I need to go dig the sweats out of my closet,” she says over her shoulder. “Go ahead, I’ll drop the sweats outside the door for you.”

“And when I’m done, we’re having coffee and another one of those pastries, right?”

Claire’s smile is soft and tender when she meets his eyes, watches as he walks backwards towards her bathroom and to the rest of their morning together. “Yeah, and then it’s pastries and coffee.”

He likes the sound of that.

_________________

What he likes even more, he decides under the hot spray of water in her shower, is that he’s surrounded by everything that reminds him of Claire. The small whiffs he’d gotten of her hair and perfume as she’d squeezed by him in the kitchen to get in and out of the kitchen paled in comparison to the strength of the perfumed soaps and shampoo and conditioner he was currently slathering over his body and into his hair. 

Strawberry. Vanilla. Something dark and sweet—honey, maybe? Or amber? 

He closed his eyes, ducked beneath the shower head, and inhaled, hissing slightly as his fingernail caught the edge of his nipple as he scrubbed at his chest. His cock twitched interestedly, the combination of the hot water, the prickling sharp sensation of pleasure he accidentally gave himself, and the smell of _Claire_ surrounding him—it was too much and not enough. He finished rinsing off the soap and the almost-there fantasy of her in the shower with him, getting his breathing and body under control. 

If he was lucky enough, if he was honest with his feelings and if she felt the same way, maybe they could revisit this shower—together.

Killing the water and stepping out of the shower, he blinked through the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and looked around for the towels. Clearing his throat, he covered himself with his hands and shuffled around the bathroom, being mindful of which cabinet doors he was opening in his search for towels.

All he could find, however, was what was possibly the world’s tiniest towel. Groaning, he grabs it and does his best to fit it around his waist, ensuring it covers all of his—um, _bits. _It barely fits around his waist, but it keeps him decent as he pads out of the bathroom soaking wet, bare-chested, and calling her name.

“Brad, would you just _wait_ two seconds? I couldn’t find—_Oh.”_

Claire comes around the corner with the bundle of clothes for him and stops when she sees him, like something straight out of a wet dream. Her entire brain short-circuits and her mouth goes dry because she can’t process what she’s seeing: a whole lot of bare skin and water droplets, the flex of Brad’s arms and thighs, his wet hair slicked back and curling behind his ears and at the nape of his neck, the tantalizing trail of hair disappearing beneath the edge of the towel…..

Claire tries really, really hard to keep her eyes focused on his face, but her eyes flick down and she can’t help it: she licks her lips.

“Claire,” he says roughly, eyes dark and teasing. “My eyes are up here.”

Cheeks burning, she hands him the clothes and mutters something about getting him a bigger towel, heading for the laundry basket in the hallway of clean but unfolded towels. Brad watches her go with a thoughtful expression.

There had been no denying the way she had looked at him, the way she had responded to him. He waited in the hallway, dripping onto her carpet, one hand clutched at the knot of fabric at his hip and the other hanging onto the men’s sweats she’d pushed into his arms. 

A fresh towel courtesy of a blushing Claire and a few minutes later, Brad slips back out of the bathroom dressed in sweats and a shirt that are only a little snug on his wide frame. His bare feet squish along her carpet as he heads back towards the kitchen where he can smell their pastries warming through and the scent of freshly percolated coffee. 

He finds Claire fussing in the kitchen, pouring them both a cup of coffee and ripping up mint and cutting wedges of lemon for the pitcher of water, keeping her hands busy. Sliding next to her on the right like he’s joining her at her workstation in the test kitchen, he praises her effusively when she adds a healthy pinch of salt to the pitcher of water, too.

“Oh _yeah_, Claire! Now we’re talkin’!”

“Well,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Someone won’t stop talking about seasoning your drinks.”

She passes him the coffee and he makes an effort to brush his fingers against hers, the tips of his fingers rubbing over her knuckles. He needs to know if she’s as affected by him as he is by her. Because this strange limbo they’re in—friends but more, more but not quite—it needs to stop, for both of their sakes.

His smug expression of _knowing_ is hidden in his sip of coffee when she snatches her hand back like he’s burned her. 

“I-I should shower, too. I probably stink.”

Brad stands up, towers over her, crowds her against the countertop, and presses his nose against her neck, inhaling deeply and dramatically. “Hmm,” he says thoughtfully, nose brushing against her neck once more for good measure before pulling away. She trembles and shivers. “You just smell like Claire to me.”

His arms bracket her in and she realizes how close they are, that he smells like her—her shampoo, her detergent, her house. It’s unexpectedly arousing and her mind is helpfully supplying the accompanying visual aid of his body, wet and flexed standing in her hallway. If she got her hands under his shirt now....

She licks her lips, glances up at him, nerves fluttering in her stomach. “Brad...”

He’s so close now, leaning down towards her, inching closer so slowly, like he’s terrified of scaring her off, of spooking her, just in case he misread the situation (god, and he’s so under her skin and in her blood that she thinks _sitch-ee-ation_). 

His thumb brushes along her back and he keeps his voice soft and playful. “If you really needed to shower too, we could’ve just shared, Claire.“

His mouth hovers over hers and there’s only one thing left to do: she lets her eyes flutter shut and she leans forward, closing the gap between them. They had been hurtling towards hit moment since Central Park, since the day he slipped his hand into hers on her first day in the kitchen and introduced himself. 

It hits her all at once that he’s consuming her, devouring her. One of his hands, so wide and expansive, on her hip and side and stomach simultaneously, while his other buries itself in her hair, tilting her head up and anchoring her to his mouth. She whimpers, clings to him.

He tastes of coffee and he’s so _eager_, kissing her in increments: softly and then more firmly, flicks of his tongue before retreating and nipping at her bottom lip. It’s maddeningly frustrating and she wants more. 

Claire’s brain and body and heart are, for once, all on the same page: on _Brad_. She lets herself feel him hard against her, his hips pressing into hers, the drag of scruff against her chin and cheeks and lips, the way he clutches at her, his soft groans low in the back of his throat.

But she gives as good as she gets and she surges to her tiptoes, rolls her hips against his and meets him kiss for kiss, groan for groan. When her fingers tease beneath the hem of his shirt and scratch along his side, he groans, hauls her closer and slips his hands beneath her thighs, lifting her up and onto the counter.

Immediately, her legs wrap around his waist and she throws her head back, giving him access to her neck and chest and shoulders. He lavishes kisses to her shoulders, to each fine freckle, swirls his tongue in the hollow of her throat. 

She becomes acutely, embarrassingly aware, that she still hasn’t showered, that her skin is salty and sticky with sweat.

“Brad,” she gasps, pushing at his shoulder. “Wait, wait.”

Immediately, he stops, pulls back breathlessly and looks at her, waiting, hands tight on her hips.

“I’m not—I mean this isn’t how the first time—it’s just that—“

He kisses her softly, stops her stuttering. “You’re sounding like me, Saffitz. Forgettin’ how to speak English.”

She glares at him in response to his smug tone. He kisses the tip of her nose. “We’re just kissin’, Claire. Ain’t goin’ anywhere you don’t want it to.”

_Just_ kissing. Oh. She had thought…

The disappointment must be on her face because he kisses her softly, licks gently at the seam of her mouth in a tender kiss. 

“Hey, hey, I don’t know what’s going on in that brain of yours,” he says hastily, tightening his hands on her to ground her to him, ducking his head to meet her eyes. “But I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now, so, this is kinda a big moment for me.”

She blushes, pleased, smoothes her hands over his chest and hooks them around his shoulders behind his neck. It’s reassuring that this is as momentous for him as it is for her; that he’s been carrying this _want_ around, too. 

He rolls his eyes dramatically, laughing. “Okay _now_ who’s smug!” She giggles and leans forward, presses her forehead to the center of his chest and just breathes him in. Beneath the scent of her own soap and detergent, she can still smell _Brad—_like pine and warm spices. 

She feels him drop soft, barely-there kisses to her head and temple, his thumbs drawing small, repetitive circles against her hip. 

When she sits back up, her heart isn’t hammering so hard in her chest and her brain feels clear and focused. This is _Brad_. And he’s waiting for her; has _been_ waiting for her. 

“Kinda a big moment over here, too,” she admits, cheeks hot.

“Yeah?”

She nods, bites her lip, and scratches lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

(His eyes go unfocused and hazy at that and she files it away for later.)

“Claire?”

“Yeah, Brad?”

“Can we do this again next weekend but, uh, without the running?”

Her nod and laugh is interrupted by his triumphant kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned for next weekend ;) cardio without the running if you get my drift


	3. Chapter 3

If Claire thought that pining for Brad Leone was torture, knowing that Brad’s feelings matched her own and not being able to do much about it whenever she wants to is pure agony.

She had been so sure that her stolen glances and smiled were going unnoticed. Now, when she lifts her eyes to sneak a glance of him at work, she finds him staring back at her, eyes twinkling and knowing. He winks at her—something that’s just theirs—and continues working, leaving her with a pleased smile on her face and a warmth to her cheeks.

It’s only been a few days, but she already knows she never wants to return to a time where his feelings for her are uncertain. Because being the center of Brad Leone’s world is intoxicating and overwhelming and she never wants to be anywhere else.

He brings her lunch when she gets wrapped up in recipe testing. That isn’t new—he always looked out for her. This time, though, it’s accompanied by his hand at the small of her back and a small, handwritten note tucked into her takeout container: _Ya look beautiful today._

(She tucks the note into the pocket of her jeans and eats her salad with a blush. She hopes the blushing part will stop soon; her fair skin can’t take it.)

Knowing every touch, every look, every remark she had once agonized over, wondering what he meant by it, was all real and backed by his feelings for her makes working difficult.

Especially when they can’t seem to find time for themselves. Their evenings are jam packed with events for the magazine or a charity bake-off. Sometimes it’s just plain exhaustion that means he presses a soft kiss goodbye to her mouth, stroking her cheek with his thumb, and spending the next few hours straight texting her during his commute and waiting til she tells him she made it home, she ate, and she’s slipping into bed.

(There’d been a moment in which they’d gone to dinner with the Bon Appétit crew and Brad had let his pinky drag along the outside of her thigh, nail scratching at the exposed thigh and eliciting goosebumps over her skin. She’d caught his hands under the table, squeezed in warning. But he’d ignored her, fingers ghosting over the inside of her knee and drawing aimless, nonsensical patterns until Claire was white-knuckling her fork and knife and swallowing down the gasp of his name.)

But it’s finally Saturday morning. 

He’d double and triple and quadruple checked the text message she’d sent last night inviting him over after she’d gotten back from her run. 

_Movie and croissant date? My place? I promise I won’t make you run this time :) _

Their schedules are blissfully clear, he’s got an armful of her favorite iced coffee and croissants. There’s no plan, no order to the day, and he didn’t have to go running. It’s already one of the better dates he’s ever had. 

When she opens the door, though, hair damp from her shower, and dressed in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, completely comfortable and at ease, looking fiercely beautiful in a way that makes him feel like he’s been sucker punched in the stomach, he knows he’s lost. 

“Hey,” she greets him, a shy smile on her face. He steps inside, ducks his head to press a gentle kiss to her mouth in greeting. 

Her eyes light up at the touch and then practically glow when she sees the coffee and croissants in his hands. 

“Oh my god, you’re a hero. I’m starving. Can you throw them in the kitchen, though? I need your help with something first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, dropping the coffee and croissants onto the kitchen bar, turning back to her, looking concerned. “Whatcha need?”

She winces, hands him a tube of peppermint lotion. “I pulled something in my back when I was running today and it’s _killing_ me. I can’t quite reach, so…”

He grins, rolls the tube between his hands. “So you need ole Brad to come to the rescue. Unless this is all a ruse,” he teases. “I’ve seen this video, Claire.” He puts on a high-pitched affectation of her voice, “_Oh Brad, I just need you to rub me down.”_

He doubles over in laughter, absolutely tickled by his own joke, as Claire’s mouth drops open in shock and embarrassment, smacking him on the arm. “Brad!” And then, “It’s only a little like that.”

Brad steps closer, reaches for her and settles his hands on her hips, kisses her forehead, her cheek, her lips. “Don’t gotta play games with me, Claire. You got me already. You want something, just ask.”

She swallows, curls he fingers into his shirt. “I’m not great at asking for help,” she admits.

“You say that like it’s something I don’t know about you. Claire, I ain’t some guy you met at a bar. It’s _me._ I known you like, a lifetime practically.”

“Four years,” she corrects him with a smile.

“Yeah but that’s a lifetime in New Jersey years. Time works differently for us.”

She laughs at that, charmed as she always is. “Okay,” she acquiesces, leaning more heavily against him. “Brad, can you help me put lotion on my back?”

“Because…..”

“Brad, c’mon,” she whines. “Don’t make me say it. It’s embarrassing.”

“Nope. C’mon, Claire. This is a learning moment. Our first learning moment as a couple.”

They both blush at _couple, _but she relents. “I would really, _really_ like it,” she says, voice dropping low and seductive in a way that makes Brad’s heart stutter-stop in his chest, “if you would help rub the kink out of my back and if you would just touch me.”

“There,” he says gruffly, tugging her forward and against him, head already ducking down and brushing over her lips. “Was that so hard?”

“You’re insufferable.”

But his lips are already on hers, searching and insistent, tongue tangling with hers. Her hair is damp in his hands as he threads his fingers through the strands, tugging gently to angle her out beneath his, desperate to press closer. 

He breaks the kiss, nudges beneath her jaw to plant a series of open mouthed kisses down the column of her neck. “You sure you want the lotion still or should we just skip to the touching part?,” he pants against her skin, his free hand slipping beneath her loose tee to palm her lower back, pulling her hips into his, letting her feel how much she is already affecting him. 

“Yes,” she groans, taking his hand in hers and tugging him back towards the living room and the couch. “Please.”

“Let me,” he says huskily, throwing the lotion onto the couch and reaching for the hem of her shirt, pulling it up slowly, reverently. With each inch of skin exposed, he pauses to press a kiss to the pale skin: each side of her hips, her stomach, her ribcage. She tugs the shirt off, impatient, and stands before him in sweatpants and a simple black bra. 

Brad leans forward on the couch, one knee on the cushion and the other foot planted on the floor, reaches for her like he can’t believe she’s real. When he wraps his hand around her waist, it occurs to her how _big_ he is: his hand on her body feels overwhelming and heavy and anchoring.

He looks up at her, fingers and mouth drifting towards her breast. She cups his cheek, nods and encourages him to lean the rest of the way and touch her the way she wants him to touch her. 

At the first touch of his mouth on her breast, she sighs, leans into him so they stumble back onto the couch, Claire landing on top of him. His hands grip her hips, anchor her to him. 

Brad grins up at her, kisses her chest, dips his tongue into the hollow at her throat, nips at the jut of her clavicle. “If you wanted to be on top, all you had to do is ask,” he teases.

She buries her face in the crook of his neck, giggling. He rubs her back softly, fingers just ghosting over the band of her bra. 

“It hurt here?” he asks, pressing tenderly at her shoulder blades. She nods against him, her _yeah_ getting lost in the space between the couch and their bodies. 

He taps her ass, kisses her head. “Okay, let’s take care of you. Everything else can wait.”

It’s unbearably sweet and she already doesn’t know how she’ll ever live without this man in her life: the man who puts her first, takes care of her, understands her. She realizes that although this is technically the beginning of their relationship, it feels like they’ve been doing this—to steal a word from Brad, a lifetime.

She pushes herself off of him, lays down on the couch facedown, and waits. Brad admires the sight of her, all pale skin and lean lines and gentle curves. He coughs, palms himself through his jeans to take the edge off so he can focus. The lotion in his hand is minty and cool and he covers her with his body, a knee on either side of her.

At the first press of his hands against her skin, she sighs and groans, somehow manages to sink lower into the cushions and moans his name. “God, _Brad.”_

He huffs a laugh, leans forward to kiss the nape of her neck. “My hands aren’t only good for dough, ya know,” he reminds her. The blush on her cheeks floods her neck and shoulders and he kisses the pink skin, too. 

Brad works quickly and efficiently, pressing and prodding the tight muscles in her shoulders and upper back. The lotion is creamy and smooth and between the relaxing properties of the lotion and his attentive hands, Claire is soon a relax pile of absolute mush.

The only sounds she makes are appreciate groans and sighs, just murmurs of directions of _harder_ and _higher_ or _lower. _

But when he reaches a particularly painful spot on her upper left shoulder, he feels hesitant. Until this point, she’d been mostly sighing and groaning with appreciation—or so he’d thought. But now she sounds more like she’s sucking in breath, hissing in pain. 

“Shit, Claire, am I hurting you?” He sits back, but she grabs his wrist and pulls him forward,kisses the center of his palm, and puts it on her back. 

“Don’t stop unless I say stop, k?” She sounds drowsy and relaxed. “Good noises, I promise.”

The goosebumps that spread across her shoulders and arms is enough proof of how he’s affecting her and he settles back in to resume his task. He drifts his hand around to her side, brushing the side of her breast in a way that makes her shiver and roll her shoulders.

“Bra,” she says, half-heartedly moving a hand behind her.

“That a request?” he teases, fingers already working at the bra strap and the series of hooks to get it free, the fabric falling from her shoulders. “What happened to that vocabulary of yours, Harvard?” he teases, lips brushing the shell of her ear. 

A muffed groan is all he hears in response as he slips his hands further down her back, fingertips stroking over the waistband of her sweatpants. The massage had allowed him to touch her more freely than he’d ever been allowed to before and between her bare skin, her soft sighs, and the memory of their frantic kisses, he’s hard and_ wanting. _

He presses his cock against her backside and she groans, tries to lift her hips up to push back against him for more friction. But he’s on top of her, knees on either side of her hips, and he’s in control. He leans forward and covers her completely, his chest pressed to her back, his hips flexing against her, his hands sliding down the length of her arms to tangle their hands together. She gasps and turns her head, seeking his mouth.

He’s already there, though, kissing her soundly, tongue slipping into her mouth and reigniting the fire that’s been crackling beneath their skin all week, all morning.

“Claire,” he pants, pushing her sweatpants down with one hand. “This okay? God, tell me if this is okay?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants, whiney and desperate and needy. “Don’t stop.”

It’s a frantic rush after she gives him the green light. He gets her sweatpants and underwear down around her knees, just enough so he can get his hands between her legs, can slide a finger along her slit where she’s wet for him, drag his knuckle against her before slipping two fingers inside her. She cries out, tightens her grip on his hand, pants his name, twists her hips and rocks against him.

“Brad,” she cries out, aching to touch him. But he’s got one of her hands tangled with his. All she can do is reach behind and grip at his t-shirt, a desperate attempt to pull him closer, deeper inside of her. It occurs to her that she’s practically naked, his fingers inside of her, while he’s still clothed. It shouldn’t be as arousing an image as it is, but it _is—_the wetness coating the inside of her thighs and his fingers proof of her arousal. 

“Please,” she begs, grasping handfuls of his shirt and clenching around his fingers. It feels good, but it’s not enough. She wants _him. _All of him.

“Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me what you want, Claire.”

“_You.”_

Harvard vocabulary or not, it’s the only word that matters.

He pulls his fingers from inside her, rolls off of her to fumble with his pants and boxers. She turns on the couch, kicks her sweatpants and underwear off her ankles, tugs her bra free and tosses it to the end of the couch. Time seems to slow and stop as they turn and face each other, completely bare.

“God,” he breathes out. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

She blushes all over and he leans over her, nudges her legs apart so he can settle in the cradle of her legs, so he can touch as much of her as he can, so he can finally slip inside her and feel what it’s like to be completely surrounded and consumed by the storm that is Claire Saffitz.

“Wait,” she gasps. “I wanna touch you, too.”

He kisses her, sucks her tongue into his mouth and nips at her bottom lip, takes her hand and slips it between their bodies so she can touch him. At the first feel of her fingers wrapped around his cock, he shudders, hips jerking into her hand. 

“Fuck, Claire,” he pants. His cock twitches in her hand as she squeezes experimentally, slides her hand up and down until he’s leaning forward and kissing her, palming her breast, begging her to stop.

“Not like this,” he pleads. “Let me, let me—“ 

  
Words escape him, too—as they often do when it comes to Claire. She kisses him, releases him, and lifts her legs up around his waist, locking her ankles behind the small of his back and pulling him in.

He lines himself up where she’s wet and open for him, pushes in slowly until he’s deep inside of her, Claire’s nails digging into his back, head thrown back and neck exposed as she writhes and clenches around him. 

The only words they need are each other’s name as they move together. Brad pulls back and snaps his hip forward, driving inside of her. She clutches at him, presses her lips to every place she can manage to touch him: his chest, his shoulders, his arms, his lips. It’s sloppy and messy and imperfect, but so _right._

Their bodies work in tandem together, pleasure and pressure coiling low in their bellies, building, building, building. When they finally break, when everything comes in a haze of pleasure and the world fades away to nothing but them and this moment, Brad collapses atop her, mouth already working in comforting, intimate kisses at her shoulder, her jaw, her mouth. 

She shivers in the waves of after-pleasure, her sex swollen and wet and aching with the evidence of their lovemaking. Her fingers stroke through his hair and up and down the notches of his spine, pressing into the dips of his lower back.

“Claire?” he murmurs, propping himself up onto one hand and looking down at her.

She hums lazily in response, still blissed out and shaking, absentmindedly running her hands over his body, scratching through his chest hair and over his stomach and hips. 

“I like this cardio a lot better than running.”

For once, she can’t argue with him. 


End file.
